The Right
by TarantellaEarth
Summary: Romano has spent too many years wondering if Spain's affection for him was genuine or a careless game; either way he absolutely can't return it. But Romano would do anything, maybe even take a bullet, to know the truth. So he did. SpaRo twoshot.
1. What is Left

Before you read this, the first thing you should know is that there's some **possibly controversial material within! **There's a few parts where Romano believes his being homosexual is wrong due to his country's deeply-rooted Catholicism. And in real life, these things would absolutely conflict. In this fanfiction, since you didn't see "darkfic" or something in the summary, you know Romano and Spain will get together in the end, and the religious conflict will be resolved. If you believe homosexuality is wrong or have some religious "thing" against it, **back out now.**

I feel it necessary to post a warning because so few yaoi fanfictions even touch upon the religious aspect of being gay, (understandably, since people who read yaoi generally don't care about people who say it's "wrong,") However, I read a recent theory about Romano being all defensive/in denial of his feelings for Spain is actually because he has some (Roman, lol) Catholic beliefs, or just is a hardcore (and secret) Catholic. I was intrigued by the idea of Romano acting that way towards Spain for a...you know, a serious reason. So here we are.

Oh. Less important warning but: beware of Angsty!Romano (in the beginning and middle, and a much better Romano at the end of the story :D) though he still retains his natural personality of a snarky, whiny, contradictory and foul-mouthed little bitch~

* * *

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck! _

He was always told that he cussed too much. But Ant—Spa—fuck!

Romano picked a rock up off the ground and hurled it at the nearest brick wall. It crashed and made tiny spider web cracks on the surface about ten inches away from the display of a flower shop. The woman whose flower shop display he'd just missed dropped a packet of seeds on the ground and gasped, "_Oh dios_ _mío_!" Romano sped away before she could see him. At the least, he was good at running. He had spent a good amount of his childhood yelling and running away to avoid things. Or running around in Spain's house trying to find some room or other. Fucking Spain!

'_Calm. Down. Calm. Down. Think of something good, come on, come on! Pizza Siciliana, Piadina, fresh Ziti, Tortellini, ah, god, now I'm hungry.' _But not so angry anymore. Well, that was good.

The weather outside was nice. There were birds, clouds, a breeze, lots of sunshine, all those retarded, good things that you saw in kids' movies because the world was so Mister-Rogers perfect when it wasn't the real world. His mood could have turned the atmosphere into something that would blow America's little Katrina incident out the goddamn door.

If he could just find a bench he could sit and try to think this through—Romano sometimes tried to think about things—honest to God, he _tried_, and screw anyone who didn't believe it—but it hardly ever gave him answers or epiphanies that he wanted to get, and so he tended to act unfulfilled and bitchy afterward. Sorry.

Think. Just go over it again. He was in Spain's country presently. He and his brother had been invited over, along with Germany Potatohumper and emotional-floorboard Japan, to see some cats. Cats which had been given to Spain by Greece, whose feline friends had been spending way too much time breeding for their master to keep all the babies.

It was the _stupidest _reason to spend two hours in a plane with Italy that Romano could think of. Honestly, if Spain could invite friends over to watch a movie or something, like normal people would do, but _no, _Spain had to share his stupid, new _cats _with them, and pick up that big-eyed little grey one and say, "Oh, Lovi, this one has your eyes! Why don't I name it Beauty?" Romano had told him what a gay statement that was, what the hell was he thinking, Spain would soon wake up with a bullet in his head if he didn't start calling him "Romano," and even a male _kitten _would shoot itself in the mouth if it knew its name was _Beauty_—when he realized what he should have stopped himself somewhere around "gay" and had run out of the house, too furious to say anything else.

The hand resting on the armrest squeezed the metal so hard it nearly broke through the skin. Once again he'd managed to mess up what could have been absolutely nothing instead of taking it…like…a man. Well, how the hell was he supposed to take anything like a man if he hardly was one?

Men didn't _like men _like he did. All he was, was wrong.

At that moment, a woman carrying a basket stopped by, rather breathless, and asked where Hernan Street was. Romano, in his awkward Spanish he kinda-sorta-not-really knew, told her to continue until the public park area ended and turn left. She smiled a bit at his speech but must have understood, since she thanked him and jogged off.

Why couldn't he be as normal and perfectly, simply _simple _as that whenever he spoke to Spain?

'_Damn it.' _

This was getting nowhere. He had to find someplace private to think, to talk. There were several convenient trees to hide behind, and he could see they were flimsy shelter, but he only needed a few minutes and most people were out eating lunch at this time of day anyway, not strolling in the park. With a final glance around, Romano stood and ducked behind the widest tree he could find, sat against the trunk, laced his hands together—sat up straight, because that was proper for this kind of thing—and tried again. This time, he wasn't talking just to himself.

'_Hello? It's me again. I'm sorry you have to hear me bitch so much but I guess there's probably even worse nutcases than me out there, and I don't know who else to tell this to. Maybe you've got the Kraut on your ass, too. Yeah, well, I got the same complaints as always…'_

* * *

"And that one can be Banana Split, because its face is yellow and brown like bananas and fudge, veeeee!"

"Ba…na…na…Split." Japan dutifully wrote it down as neat as possible on his list of names, and wrote down "Number 11" below it. "And that one? It's a female, pure white. _Blanca_ is the feminine word for white in Spain-san's language, correct?"

"Oh, that's so pretty!" Italy gushed. He picked up the kitten off the couch and held it up to Germany, sitting beside him and sipping a glass of water. "Germany, isn't Blanca very pretty?"

"The name or the cat, Italy? Because the cat seems to be very irritated." Blanca turned her head in the German's direction and mrrrr'd. Looking just beyond her head he saw a door open and Spain came through, his hair slightly more wind-tossed than normal, and his eyes dark and half-lidded with exhaustion.

Newly-named-Blanca lifted herself in Italy's grasp to see him and mrrrr'd yet again. When her new owner closed the front door and came to went over on the couch with the rest of them, the other guests at last noticed. "Spain! Oh, you look so sad! Did Romano trample on your heart?"

Pushing Supercat and Rutherford off the armrest, Spain slid slowly onto the end of the couch and sat cross-legged. "I couldn't find him. I thought he'd be in one of the Italian restaurants, or this bookstore where there're always girls in the romance section. But he wasn't there, or anywhere I looked. I…I don't know." He put his chin in his hands, fingers over his mouth. "I hope he's not lost. He hasn't been to this city in years. There's no way he'd still remember how to get around."

"He can ask directions to your house…" Japan supplied, trying to be polite.

"If there're girls nearby," Spain conceded. "Lovi is so nice to girls. And they're nice to him. If a man comes up and asks him if he's lost, though…he'll…start a fight or something…get jailed…" He dropped his head into a hammock of his half-laced fingers. "I hate when he runs away from me. I don't know why he does it!"

Japan blinked several times at that little display of idiocy, and then looked up when the door opened again. Through it trudged Romano, the knees of his pants scuffed with dirt and unmistakable redness trickling from between his lips onto an already-red spot on the collar of his shirt. Italy leapt up immediately. "Romano! Romano, where did you just eat? The waiters didn't even give you napkins!" Germany grabbed a fist full of the back of his shirt and pulled hard once; he fell into a sitting position again as Spain went up in his place.

He chased Romano down one hall, up one set of stairs, down four other hallways which incidentally did nothing but make a square, and down another hallway in which he finally found Romano sitting against the wall, panting and frustrated. Spain jogged over to him and sat down as well, adjusting himself at Romano's side.

It was no surprise when Romano stuck out his elbow and pushed him over. It was the angry, defensive sort of thing he always did when he was trying to be playful, right? Spain got up again, smiling at that, feeling more confident now. "You should tell me who you started a fight with, Lovi. So I can go apologize to them tomorrow."

"If I have to apologize to somebody I don't need some fag babysitter to do it for me!" Romano spat back, adjusting his shirt. "Like I need to apologize anyway! He was just some dick who wouldn't leave me alone, probably wanted to steal my wallet. I defended myself and that's that."

"If somebody tries to beat you up, I should know—"

"I _just _said I don't need a damn babysitter!"

He'd been saying such things since he was little so Spain laughed a bit nostalgically as he replied, "But I'm older than you, Lovi, so of course I'm the babysitter!"

"What the fuck did you come up here for?" Romano deflected.

Settling just a little closer, making Romano try to scoot just a little farther away, Spain replied, "To make sure you're okay, silly. You were gone for two hours and came back with blood on you. Seeing that makes me worried, and makes me wonder what you were doing. You could be fighting crime, maybe! Or leading a double life with the mafia!"

"Yeah. 'Cause that makes sense. Let me just call them up for my next hit."

"What? What? Y-You're actually with the mafia!" This was followed by a "gyakk" sort of sound made by Romano's fist meeting his neck, which was followed by the biting reply, "No, I'm not in the goddamn mafia, you idiot! HEY!"

Just after the "no," Spain thrust his whole body forward and embraced Romano, his arms effectively covering the younger's torso. And hopes of scooting away. "Oh, I'm so relieved! Because, I've seen people like that, you know? They're not good people, my Lovi. They'll hurt you." He pulled back and made Romano go eerily still by putting both hands firmly on his shoulders. "You know that, don't you? Whatever you want or need, don't go to the mafia. You come to me."

At first, Romano had no reply but an exaggeratedly exasperated frown, but all he got in return for such an expression was an unchanging one from Spain, which slowly became stony, and then unnerving, and then—"Of course I'm not gonna go to the damn mafia for stuff. How the hell would I know where to find mafia guys, anyway? It's not like they hang around the town market buying tomatoes." And Spain's face smoothed into a soft joy, with eyes half-lidded, something like that of a parent watching to their child learning to read.

"Yes," he said, one hand dropping from its place on Romano's shoulder. His pleased expression remained. "It's not like anyone knows where to find the mafia. But you know what found you, Lovino?"

Possibly taken aback slightly by the use of his entire name, Romano didn't even answer. Spain didn't wait long for one before chirping, "Me!" and pushing him onto his back.

It had been literally years since such an attack. Romano made some distressed, thoroughly angry sounds when Spain sat on him quite inappropriately. He struggled even more when the attacker pushed his shirt up and let his hand skitter where it pleased. Romano bucked exaggeratedly to the side, trying to bash Spain's head against the wall, slapped his hand over his mouth and gagged all at the same time. Spain now added his other hand and let them both crawl and patter around, and that time Romano could not hold it in. He laughed so loudly the exhalation blew his hand right off his mouth.

"You _dick,_" Romano said, grabbing at Spain's hands and carelessly using his nails, as well. "Get—ghaaaha!—get the fuck _off me_!" Spain didn't particularly feel like hearing such things so drifted nearer to his waistline, where memories of more innocent years told him Romano was dreadfully ticklish.

"No-ooo," Spain sang. Romano tried to slash his nails on his attacker's arms but were blocked by sleeves. "I haven't seen you smile or laugh in so long. And getting into fights now! You need to unwind. Be happy." Romano tried to sit up, and Spain moved his hands farther up his chest so as to have a better leverage point from which to shove him back down.

By now, poor Romano was nearly choking on laughter. It took him several seconds to calm his reddened face down and prepare his mouth for coherent words again. He didn't, completely. "I need air, dipshit! I need air to be happy!"

Still Spain kept up his devious torture, seemingly oblivious of the latest comment. "Hmm? _Are _you happy?"

"I'm fucking _ecstatic_!"

"Okay!" And Spain lifted up his hands as though telling someone to stop. Which left him quite unprotected for the punch that struck his jawbone and sent him onto his back. "Aughhh…" he groaned, rubbing the spot. "Lovi…that's not something happy people do."

"Tackling young men's not what normal people do, didja know that?" was the scathing reply. "Seriously! I come up here to be alone and I'm fucking hunted down and tickle-molested by an older man, where no one can see or hear, and he's all like, 'don't worr-ay, be happ-ay,' like it's just another day! Just another day in Pedoland, where penises abound and sodomy is A-okay!"

Now grimacing for something besides the pain, Spain replied a bit softly, "That's not true. And it's not even very nice. I tried to make you laugh because you're angry all the time."

"I'm not angry all the time, moron, I'm _normal _all the time," Romano scoffed. "You just think I look angry 'cause your little world is all full of smiles and sunshine, and when I come around, you act like I brought the fucking Holocaust with me."

Spain's face fell. "That's not true, either." He moved up till he was on his knees, higher than Romano, who sat cross-legged and ruffled some two feet away. "That's a very big lie. I try to make you laugh because I love you a lot." Japan's yelling a floor below, intermixed with two screeching cats, filled the silence that Romano otherwise let sit there.

"Don't say stupid shit to me when I'm already pissed," Romano chose to say eventually, and began to stand up. When he appeared to be higher, Spain stood up as well and took Romano's wrist in his left hand.

"It's not stupid." he said, smiling only slightly. "I do love you a lot, _mijo._" He took the other wrist, and let his forehead fall onto Romano's. There it stayed, and there Romano would absolutely not look. Spain remained untouched by any punches, clawing attempts and angry screeches as he took both of Romano's hands and dropped them onto his shoulders, and even when he laid both his own hands to rest round the Italian's back.

"I love you like this," he added, and nudged his forehead up slightly so the rest of their faces would meet as well. Spain's lips touched Romano's, and it would be a lie to say he didn't delight in the spasm of fingers on his shoulders.

Romano was not kissed often, and certainly not by many people, but Spain rarely took advantage of this. Today, he did not, and let it go on for perhaps ten seconds. He felt the soft contours and pretended his tongue was searching for a spot to pass through, and Romano pretended he didn't feel a thing. Once, perhaps a decade ago at a European convention, when all others had been away for lunch, Romano parted his lips slightly, a small enough amount that one would almost miss it, and in each subsequent kiss it became Spain's faint hope that perhaps this time, maybe this time, it would happen again, and their tongues would play together.

It didn't this time. No, the only movement was Spain's own mouth massaging Romano's, and the latter's near-constant gripping the former's jacket in his fingers as though in pain. It came time to end, so as a sort of parting gift Spain licked Romano's lips as he retreated, and stood up with a lovely smile. "That's kind of different from how I loved you when you were a little kid!"

Romano looked about to say something cynical, but his mouth didn't seem able to move, and his hands now lay moody and defeated on Spain's shoulders but were quite unwilling to leave there.

Spain fixed this problem by taking one hand in his own and then beginning to walk away. "Come on and I'll get you a shirt you can wear while I put that one in the washer. Lovi, did you know I love when you wear my clothes? It's so cute! Haha!"

* * *

Encounters like the one last week were dreams.. So enjoyable, so perfect, they just absolutely could _not _be real, Romano decided and stood kinda-sorta firm by that decision. His zigzagging heart and morality could not realistically meet Spain's smooth affection and meet, and shape themselves into each other like…like fucking perfect puzzle pieces. In real life, Spain would only do those things if they were false, amusing, just a game, just like costume parties and charades, which were shitty, fake things, done for fun and laughter.

In real life, men only acted the way Spain acted towards him…towards women.

For the last few decades there was a growing population around the world that thought otherwise. Romano wanted to join them and be a part of a pack that accepted him like he would never accept himself. The "never" could be changed, possibly, just maybe, if Spain's actions were anything more than playful. Amusing. Fake. But they weren't, obviously!

Spain had been fucking with him ever since he started _pretending _to give a damn. In the earliest days, when he was a little one, Spain didn't even pretend: he outright told Romano he was unmanageable, un-trainable and plain and fucking simply _irritating. _Then he started comparing him to his little brother, and then he wasn't good enough and was too loud and helplessly clumsy—well, that wasn't even his fault!—and not cute enough and was once eligible to be handed right back to Austria, apparently. So much for being a nice guy, he had no idea how much that hurt, the freaking jackass!

And then he got older, and Spain's attitude started changing. It wasn't even when Romano was wholly grown. He was still very young, his voice barely beginning to deepen, when he noticed Spain began treating him…like he cared.

The first time, he'd hugged Romano tightly and nuzzled his hair after he'd gotten some pizza sauce on his cheek, and gotten a napkin to get if off for him, laughing. Which was obviously him holding back from acting exasperated at Romano not exhibiting the good eating habits Spain had tried to teach him. Obviously. What the hell else would Spain _hug _him for?

It got more frequent as he got older. Spain would find the stupidest excuses to hug him or hold his hand or pick him up or kiss his face—or his _stomach _a couple times, freaking weirdo—and the time Italy realized he liked it was a little bit before he realized that the affection usually came with a laugh or smile. A joking laugh or smile. So it was fun. Amusing. Not real. Romano was hooked anyway and couldn't be unhooked. Long before that, though, he was educated in the ways of the real world, and most of the real world did not accept Romano's feelings. In many parts of the world, Romano would be shot for his feelings.

Suddenly, he wished he would be, and the strength of the wish made him clench his hands and curl his toes till they cramped his whole foot. God_dammit, _he wished he could just be shot, and it would all just go away. Feli would be fine without him. Germany would dance on his grave and kidnap Feli to his Nazi bedroom. Spain would be short one…victim?

Romano lifted his hands slightly and straightened his back. Begging. '_Please, please make me stop thinking he's so beautiful and kind and happy. When he said he loved me, I believed him and I know that's stupid. Make me stop wanting him, make me stop wishing it was real, make me stop being a sinner.' _

"Ro-maaaa-noooooo," came Italy's voice from outside his room. "_Fratello _Romanoooo! We're going to be late! I don't want to be late, this month's meeting is in Germany's capital, you know! I wanna—"

"I know, okay? Shut up and let me put my fucking shoes on!" And Romano stood up, his knees sore and his palms warm from touching each other so long. He found his shoes under his bed and tied the laces extra-carefully, just to take up a little extra time. Plus he couldn't tie shoes worth shit so he had to redo them once they were all done.

This was just to put off having to listen to Italy jabber on and on about wurst and Oktoberfest and gay Nazis while they were in the taxi and checking in at the airport and buying food at the Olive Garden To Go at the airport—Romano turned away from the cashier lady and snapped" Will you _shut up?_"—and while they were on the plane and when the flight attendant asked him to please be quiet—"Italy, close! Your! Fucking! Mouth!"—and when they got off the plane—"Oh my god, do you not breathe?"—and when they took another taxi to an administrative office in Berlin where it was supposed to be nice and official and quiet and shit so Romano turned around and grabbed his brother's shoulders and was about to scream something really nasty when Italy nicked his ear in an effort to point swiftly over his shoulder.

"Look, look! It's Spain and he has cookies!"

Romano whipped around, still holding his brother, and saw Spain coming towards them in a short-sleeved, way-too-casual jacket…with a little cloth bag of cookies in his hands. What.

Romano had absolutely no interest in his casual attire or his happy, "_Hola, mis amores!" _but watched with mild interest at how retard France was running behind him, pulling on his hood to try and keep up. France brushed hair out of his eyes and said something in his own tongue that sounded annoyed. He was ignored.

A smile bloomed on Italy's face when Spain dropped the cookies into his waiting hands; Spain sidled past him and nearly fell onto Romano to embrace him. Romano chigigigi'd and heard, "_Te extrañé!" _chuckled into his ear, whatever that meant. He would have chigigigi'd more if he hadn't had the breath squeezed out of him: Spain unnecessarily tightened his arms around him and hoisted him several inches up off the ground.

"What the hell are you doing, you creep? Put me down! Now!" He beat his hands on Spain's back, feeling warm muscle there and stopping immediately.

"I just want you to sit next to me this time," Spain explained, and opened a door leading to a fake pine-smelling room where chairs had been arranged around a fancy black table. "Oh! Oh! I'll get us window seats! They're the best!" Spain giddily walked to the other side of the table, situated near the corner of the room. He pulled out a chair and gently slid his charge into it.

"Window seats are cool on _planes, _retard." Romano said, gritting his teeth. Actually, Italy thought window seats were cool, but Romano much preferred to sit in the aisle and pretend they weren't actually floating precariously a million miles in the air, thanks. But why would Spain bother knowing a personal thing like that about Romano when it was so much more fun to do retarded things like carry him across a meeting room?

_'Lazy, uncaring fucker.' _

Spain turned around when other nations started piling in, chattering about things like the World Cup and the latest Bond movie and Twilight. He waited till Prussia appeared in his polished navy uniform and waved. "Prussia! Prussia, sit here!"

Prussia pushed Cuba out of his way, ran over, leapt the last several feet and landed like a leech on Spain's side. "Hahaha! I told you bitches I could jump six feet! I can outdo a damn kangaroo!" He slid off and chuckled as he pulled out his own chair on his friend's left.

Internally, Romano scoffed, _'What a goddamn—HEY!' _Spain had suddenly pulled on Romano's chair to bring him closer and embraced him again, tucking his "victim's" head under his chin. "I know you don't like hugging, Lovi, but I had this awful dream last night, but there was no _pequeño Lovino _there when I woke up for me to—" Romano bucked his head up against his captor's chin, making the teeth meet. He heard a rather satisfying, "—Ghhth." Spain's arms suddenly went very lax.

Shaking now, Romano tore out of them. "Do something like that again, and I'll make you bite off your whole damn tongue."

Swallowing what had to be blood, Spain blinked as merrily as a kitten and then replied, "Such a violent way to play hard-to-get," he remarked airily, and then smiled in such a way as to make Romano's spine tremble. "And unnecessary. Do you want to bite my tongue yourself? I'll let you."

"Whoa. Gayness." Prussia leaned out over the table to have a better view of the two of them, and took Romano's acidic glare in stride. "Oh, what? Can't act on your hot, hot desires now that you got a witness, little man? Man, Spain, your uke's got a long way to go."

"Spain's _what?_" Romano lunged at him and Prussia kicked against the side of the table to push himself out of reach.

"Hey! Bad uke, bad! Spain, bite him! Show him who's boss! Oww! Fuck, don't kick me!" Now shaking with fury, Romano heaved his chair right up to the edge of the table and lay his head down against him, nested by his arms. Spain moved his hand back and forth across his shoulders and was frequently but ineffectually shoved away.

The other nations were just about settled when Prussia finally came close again. He leaned his chair back and planted his boots on the edge of the table, reclining back. He said something probably arrogant or totally inappropriate but Romano wasn't listening. He was far too busy staring at the table an inch away from his nose and trying to cool his face a notch down from red-hot. What the hell was wrong with him, if a damn backrub made him flustered?

Up near the front of the table, Austria had gotten up and was reminding the nations about Oktoberfest coming up, which he and his colleagues Germany and Prussia were indeed very excited about, and certainly everyone was invited to the celebration they were holding together on _Rosenmontag _and aristocracy and afternoon tea and sipping beer and blah blah blah.

Romano had eyes only for the table his head was on, and felt nothing but Spain's hand still trying to smooth the furious knots out of his tight back. Could he see Romano's fists clenched so tight they hurt? Of course he _could _if he looked, but he was about as cunningly observant as a guy at an American wet T-shirt contest, so he wouldn't.

'_To the left. Left, you moron!' _Romano thought, pretending desperately he would be heard._ 'Are you freaking deaf? Left! The hand you don't write with? Over that way! Oh…nnn…thank you. Hey, ungrateful dick, I said thanks! It's fucking polite to say 'you're welcome' and I—nononononono.' _

Now Romano could feel one of his fists bleeding. _'I mean…I mean…stop. You're a prick and a two-faced little bitch and I wish I had a baseball bat so I could smack you upside the head but you'd just laugh about it and try to hold my hand and aaugh!'_

As luck would have it, Romano leapt up from his chair about the same time everyone else did to leave the concluded meeting. Only Netherlands and Cuba, sitting near the door, had left when Prussia leapt up onto the table and shouted for everyone to look at him (Netherlands and Cuba came back). Romano looked, too, but scowled when Prussia just reiterated Austria's Oktoberfest invitation in simpler, cruder words. Prussia promised to give his favorite nine-millimeter pistol to whoever beat him in a drinking contest. Romano was about to saunter out the door wondering aloud who gave a damn about Prussia's gun when a hand pulled him back. He swatted it away, knowing too easily who it was.

"Wait a minute. I didn't give you yours," said Spain, rummaging around in a little backpack he'd brought.

"My what? Sanity?"

Smiling and chuckling a little at that, Spain produced a little cloth bag tied by a white string. "I gave Italy his earlier, and I asked France to wrap yours special. Here. "

"…Cookies," Romano stated rather than asked. His body seemed curiously frozen, not burning nor freezing, but numb. This gift was so simple. So nice. "Cookies from France? What, do they have snail extract?"

"No, silly," Spain laughed. "France made these himself, and I told him not to include funny stuff like that 'cause you don't like it. Instead, he put these really delicious little chocolate things in them, and I think they taste fantastic and—"

"I don't want 'em, you take 'em," Romano interrupted, and tried to pull away, but Spain's hand wouldn't let go of his wrist.

"Ha? Really?" he replied, quite oblivious to the force fruitlessly trying to pull his arm off. "You want me to have them?"

"Geez, they're not my kidneys, you idiot! Sure, fine, have them. From me to you." _'What? What did I just say?'_

Some other nations leaving the room gave the pair odd looks as they went by (Hungary snuck behind the door and stayed there). A lot of odd looks were given before Spain's smile grew even bigger and he said, "That's, that's so sweet of you! Aww, I love you, Lovino~" He jerked his arm to the side, heaving Romano forward, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and laid a little kiss on his hairline. "Haha! A little faster and you could have tangoed into my arms like we were dancing—"

"IhavetogofindItalyso—" Struggling wildly, Romano escaped Spain's hold and sped out the door as though there was a monster coming after him.

Behind him, Netherlands was yelling, "Yeah, you better run, you dickless little punk!" and Italy was probably crying for him to come back, but Romano couldn't care less.

He ran all of three miles to the airport and sat on a bench with a freaked-out native couple to wait for his brother. And for his heart to slow down.

* * *

'_What the hell is taking so long, I've been patient as a saint and tried to be a good freaking person but no matter what anything he does makes me happy as a glittering fucking girlscout and I just can't stop it! He said he loved me today! And—and—and I believed him, just as easily as I believe tomatoes are red! _

'_Yeah, I love him, okay? Sorry! I know I have no right to do that, but Lovino-fucktard-Vargas is in love with the hottest, best guy in the world and it's a mutual feeling, apparently, so there! _

'_Except that's it's...not. Except that I know he's just playing around like he always does, and if I'm lucky he thinks of my like an annoying tagalong little brother but sure as hell not the way I hope he does. Right? Right? He's fucking with my head and not even trying to! You don't fall in love with somebody who plays a dumb _joke_ on you! If you do, your name is Lovino-fucktard-Vargas and you're destined to jerk off thinking of matadors and babysitting your stupid brother for the rest of your life! Sucks to be you!_

…_Ugh._

_Italy's calling me to help me make his pasta 'cause he forgot how to turn the stove on. I'm gonna go press the button for him. I, uh…yeah…that totally wasn't cool to go off like that. I kinda have temper tantrums sometimes. I shoulda saved that for when I was done. Sorry. Oh, uh, praise be to You, man. Amen.'_

"Italy, if you forget how to press a button one more time—"

* * *

I'm quite nervous to be posting this because it's strange and dangerous territory...of course, you know it'll all end up nice and happy but I'm sure having a conflict like this in a yaoi fanfiction (as opposed to the ever-popular, "Oh my gosh, I _can't _be gay!" predicament.) is a new experience to most readers here. Well, at least in the range of normality, Romano contradicts his own feelings about as often as he blinks, and Spain was unfailingly happy and airy in expressing his. Obviously he's got no problems with the relationship, because he can't _read the atmosphere_ (LOL REFERENCE JOKE!). Though I'm sure he'd sense some sort of, uh, atmospheric change if Romano was wearing his clothes, as was mentioned once. I know I would~

If Angsty!Romano was too much for you, you may be happy to hear that he gets shot in the second half of this two-shot. No, that's not a spoiler.

I'm pretty sure it's clear, but on the off-chance you didn't get that, about ninety percent of the things in italics are Romano praying or attempting to talk to God. That's the last thing you'd ever think he'd do, huh? Right after Belarus says she wants to divorce Russia. Well, it's his only solace. Italy's too silly to take such an issue seriously or truly understand it, and honestly, what other friends does Romano have?

This was originally going to be a oneshot, but it went on too long so I split it here. I don't know if you guys' attention spans can hold on for all eight thousand, six hundred and one words I have thus far ^^; The rest will come soon, literally soon, because nearly a third of it is already written.

See you in the conclusive next and final chapter :D


	2. What is Right

In recent news, I have at last finished this half of the story! This is the longer piece by a noticeable margin, and to top off the resolution of the drama, there's…kind of a lemon at the end. Kind of.

Beyond that, you will see the culmination and resolution of Romano's confusion, hate and self-loathing wrapped up in an accidental shooting and a medical impossibility (really, what happens to Romano is something that has a one percent chance or less of happpening. I got it off of House, and House got it off a birth defect.). This is what it takes to convince Lovino Vargas that he's wrong. Man.

Let's not forget, THE "CONTROVERSIAL MATERIAL" (PLUS DRAMA) IS STILL GOIN' ON.

**GOD TALKS. REALLY.**

* * *

It's not like Romano was excited to attend the _Oktoberfest _party. The hosts didn't seem to realize that, hey, it was still _September_ even up here in Aryan-land. Romano complained about this to his little brother for the hour-long flight and then to the taxi driver who shouted some nasty German stuff at him. They were let out on a celebratory street where everyone from the oldest grandpa to the littlest toddler was moving around with a smile and a beer mug. Well, okay, not every one of them had a beer mug. But pretty much everybody smiled and acted merry.

"Look, Romano! Look, look, look! That guy's wearing tights—uh, I mean _lederhosen! _They're Germany's favorite clothes to take off! Romano? Romano, the party's not that way!"

Italy jogged backwards in the direction Romano had stormed off in, and by fluttering around him like a moth around a lamp, coerced his brother to walk in the right direction.

"Italy, please don't make this like last year where you tried to force-feed me a wurst," the elder growled. "I'll just drink their beer and collapse under a table or something. And if you see Spain, keep him away from me."

Italy knew the basic skeleton of his brother's conflicted feelings towards their old guardian, but not enough to know why Romano would not want to talk to him at a festival. So he said, "But why? He always wants to give you hugs and stuff like that."

"'Cause I don't want a damn hug, _stupido fratello._ If he comes just stall him, talk to him about soccer or something. Clocks. Cheese. Whatever!"

So he stormed off again, alone, and formulating a plan. The second he'd stepped out of the taxi, Romano had decided he'd do something tonight. Something that would help his situation. If he didn't start looking now, he'd start to be led away from the right path again. And God only knew, yes indeed, God only knew, how many times he'd been pulled away from the light. Romano looked around at the dancing, smiling people in the town square, milling around tables crammed with bratwurst and sauerkraut—Jesus, _uggh!_—and a hella lotta potatoes. There was nothing there he could use. Unless he dried to drown himself in the kids' _Apfelsaft _bowl. Okay. Nothing.

Nothing here that could prove either Spain's honest feelings or his affable lies, and save Romano himself.

What could he possibly use to find this out? Besides a lie detector? Or a cash bribe? What about a confession at gunpoint? He had no experience with any of those things.

Well, fuck.

"Oh, _heute blauuu! Und morgen blauu! Und üüüüüüüüübermorgen wieeederr!_"

Without meaning to, Romano turned his head in the direction of the screechy noise and walked towards the direction it seemed to be radiating from. It was a drinking song, of course, and he had close to no affection for any country that wasn't his, much less the songs foreigners from them sang when intoxicated. But his legs were shaking already; God only knew if he'd be able to do this when Spain was sober. May as well go see if he was there. And try.

He pushed through a crowd and saw Prussia standing in his usual clothes, but disheveled and with his military coat open to show the dressier shirt beneath. Not to mention he was standing on the table, but Romano's eyes were more taken by Germany, standing impatiently on the ground few feet away and fully decked out in _lederhosen. _

"Ohh-ho my fucking _God_—" Romano started, already losing his ability to breathe.

He was tapped on the head by something hard right then, and he whirled around, ready to maim whatever had ruined the hilarious moment. The only one who would take the effort to talk to him was Spain, so Spain he expected. And Spain was there, holding a fancy little goblet-cup-thing and wearing a fantastic blue top that had some rather eye-catching…nothing eye-catching at all.

"_God!_" Romano said again, his mood completely ruined. "Can't you ever not stalk me? I just wanted to hang out and get drunk and go home! I don't need you haunting my every freaking step, and I'm sure you can find something more interesting than—"

But Romano had seen the _two_ little goblet-cup-things his old guardian was carrying—no, not little goblet-cup-things, but fancy little _glasses_—and the conclusion that appeared in his brain went all the way through him, freezing him up almost everywhere except in the deepest places, where it burned.

In fact, this so scared him that he didn't even allow Spain to explain; Romano interrupted himself by turning around and running away mid-sentence.

If Spain said or yelled anything after him, Romano didn't hear. How hilariously pathetic that, just like in a movie, he actually couldn't hear anything but his heart pounding. Except no movie warned him about the nausea that came with the pounding heart. Romano stopped by the window of a green, cheery restaurant and sat down at an outdoor table with a hand over his torso, trying to calm both chest and stomach.

Okay. It would calm down soon. And any second now, the need to suddenly vomit would poof away. He wouldn't feel sick as a dog. But try as he might to speed up time by growling and groaning and holding his chest and tapping his fingers, Romano still felt ill and light-headed.

'_He was gonna buy me a drink,' _Romano thought, just as surely as he would think the sky was blue. _'He was gonna _buy me a drink.'

His heart pulsed so hard, so loud, it started to hurt. _'This…isn't fucking funny! Or _fair! _How many more tests do I have to go through before you fix me? Huh? Huh? I haven't asked one goddamn thing of you except to fix this and he just won't leave me alone!' _

Romano started running. The rate his heart was going now, running would probably calm it. Shit, didn't people go into cardiac arrest when their hearts went this fast? Didn't they fall down or faint? Romano thought of Spain, who liked him enough to buy him a drink…and kept thinking of Spain buying him a drink. Spain bought him a drink. People did that on dates. Yeah, they absolutely did, it was practically a staple now, like Americans eating fast food so that meant he really—

Nonononnono.

What the fuck was he doing going off on a tangent like that? For fuck's sake, his brain did nothing nowadays but rapid-fire random, nonsensical shit left and right. Stop, stop, think about the real situation, about something, anything! He thought about Antonio kissing him. Because he wanted to. Because he thought Romano was cute and fun to tickle and had a boisterous and outgoing personality. Yeah, that—FUCK!

Romano forced himself to stop in his tracks, careless of the human traffic jam he was causing. The truth, the bleakness of it, had suddenly rooted him to the ground. He realized with terrible clarity that each time his mind flipped back and forth like this, God would point another finger at him, a finger charged with damnation and would crush him as Romano's own finger would crush an ant.

He shouldn't be looking for a way to prove the feelings right or wrong, just a way to stop both his and Spain's for good. He'd started looking earlier, but he had to do it seriously now.

This was a festival full of people with beer-fuzzed minds and hefty, unwieldy drinking mugs. There had to be something here that would give a hard, heavy and painfully obvious _no._ Romano turned around again, his vision swimming and his stomach still churning, and saw Prussia. He had wandered far away from his table and was now standing in a circle of people about fifty yards ahead of him in the middle of the street, boasting out loud to an awed crowd and swaying a little. He was drunk.

He had a gun.

Romano's feet moved forward. God was moving them. Yes, yes, _yes, _God was finally putting him on the right path, putting him _right_ on the fucking right path. In His wisdom, He knew Spain's true loyalty to him would be tested with true danger, and He was imparting some of this wisdom to Romano now. He felt his crazed mind beginning to settle.

He drank up the knowledge he was being given: when this was over, Spain's affection would drop like an anvil. With his favorite game turned into a wounded, bleeding wreck, he would at last fall away and realize he could no longer get, never should have gotten, cheap, two-faced amusement from Lovino Vargas, who was no sinner.

His feet moved closer and closer and soon he was almost jogging to get in range. He was almost there, was going almost in a straight line towards him now, just waiting.

Any moment now, Prussia's finger would convulse a little too much, and maybe if God was kind he would consider burying the bullet deep inside him, stopping Romano's furious heart for good and ending centuries of his torture. Italy, and only dear _fratello _Italy, would be sad—maybe. Even if he wasn't, he would lose a brother. He would be an only child. He didn't deserve

* * *

He didn't mean it he didn't mean it he didn't mean it he didn't mean it he didn't mean it he _didn't _and goddammit, the _Fest _was ruined and this was his fault!

Prussia had been planning to give the gun away to somebody anyway for some reason he couldn't remember, so he tossed it to the side. He heard it smack into someone's face amongst the number of surprised screams and yelps the crowd around him was already making in response to the gunshot. He didn't care.

He walked forward, trying to make his feet go straight, go almost straight at least, so he could see. He had to see. Some guy in front of him drifted into his way. Prussia shoved the dumbass aside and took the last couple steps to where Romano was lying.

He was pressing his hands around his collarbone where the bullet had hit, where Prussia had accidentally shot him, and he was wheezing and crying. Holy _shit,_ if he didn't do something Spain would rip his skin from his bones.

Ambulance, hospital, cell phone, that's it! Cell phone to call for some doctor help, that's what an awesome person would do!

Prussia whirled around, growling angrily at the blurry, wide-eyed shapes he saw. "Somebody gimme a cell phone so I can get help! Come on!" Maybe a couple of the blurry-looking people moved, maybe they didn't. He couldn't see; a yell came from behind him so suddenly he jumped and almost tossed himself off his feet.

Whirling shakily around, Prussia squinted and was able to see a fancily-dressed Spain running up the street with something in his hand which he tossed carelessly away. There was a red stain in the street behind him like the guy had vomited blood or wine or something just before he started running. How weird, to vomit blood. Or wine. Prussia had seen medical shows where doctors explained that coughed-up blood could be due to a burst blood vessel, and if it was foamy, it came from the lungs, and blood from the lungs was serious shit. And damn, was it cool to tell that shit to people like America or Sealand, who totally acknowledged his awesome knowledge and dude Spain was coming up to his face. Well, now he was falling to one knee by Romano.

Prussia blinked heavily, and when he opened his eyes again, Spain was in his face, close enough to headbutt. Spain grabbed him by his neck—air air air, where was the air!—and pulled him so close their noses almost touched. "_Hijo de PUTA_! What have you done? Call an ambulance! Now!"

"I did," he tried to say, but it came out weird, and it was kind a of a lie anyway since he'd told other people to do it but ugggh his head was hurting.

"You fucker! What am I going to do if he dies?" Spain screeched, his face breaking up with emotion.

Prussia started shivering. His mind had suddenly gone blank, not something which usually happened when he was drunk. Was he in Berlin or someplace else? Was it Monday? Why was everybody staring at the guy on the ground? "Wh…what's he to you?" he said slowly.

"_Everything_! He's _mine_!"

And out of nowhere Prussia was on the ground, his head hurting and maybe even bleeding from Spain shoving him so hard, but he didn't divert Spain's attention to his own pain. He'd seen his friend hold Romano like a lover a thousand times—well, no shit, because they were lovers—but to see him forcing Romano to sit up, to see Spain embrace him and cradle him and smooth his hair and watch as Romano panted and bled and did absolutely nothing to shove him away, was strange in a way that chilled his skin.

He saw Romano's mouth coming together to form words again but couldn't hear them. Spain whispered back intensely, touching his knuckles to Romano's cheeks which incited no form of foulmouthed rage or blushing outcry whatsoever. Romano merely held his hands tight to his wound and blood ran through his fingers, tainting his shirt.

God, this was so bad. Where was the ambulance? Romano was a bitch, _God, _he was a whiny bitch, but he probably didn't deserve to be shot, and he definitely didn't deserve to be shot by a drunkard and die. Was the ambulance driver fucking asleep?

Spain added his hand onto Romano's to further staunch the never-ending blood flow. He whispered still. Prussia was sick of not being in on it. "Hey. Hey! What's he saying?"

Spain's hand pressed harder on the wound. "He asks me to forgive him."

* * *

…_Is this it? Is this the end? I ran towards death and it came? I…that's it? I tried once after so long and you just gave it to me? You…my Lord, you really love me…_

_Love._

_Hh…huh? Who—_

_Love was never a word to be played with. But Man plays with it still. _

_L-Lord, I…I'm not playing with it! I don't—_

_See._

Eyes that did not feel like his own opened. A head that hardly felt like his turned. A white room encircled him, machines made faint noises in a nearby place he couldn't see, and Spain stood mere feet away, speaking urgently to a man and woman in stark white coats. His eyes glistened and there was a spot of blood on his front, speckled and uneven as though it had been pressed there on accident. He was suddenly yelling, or so his wide, moving mouth and fists claimed, but there was no sound.

_That is love. That is a deep love as only a small piece of mankind experiences._

_It-it's not. You said so. The Bible says so. There is friendship between men and no love, not tender, not passionate, not anything. Love between men is for sinners. I want only your love._

_That you have. And this you have. _

The yelling seemed to stop when the woman put her hand on Spain's shoulder and rubbed softly on the muscles there. Spain stepped backward and half-fell into a chair, covering his face with his hands. All of him shook, hard and jagged, as though with sobs, and when he raised his head again to say something to the folk in white, one could indeed see tears running harsh and clear down his cheeks.

_All his world, his sun, is you. He is yours._

_He's a lying fuck! You said this was _wrong! _You were going to save me from this!_

_I have spoken no such words. Your trials were of your own creation, of Man's creation. Here is your salvation._

The woman went out of his line of sight and the man took Spain's arm and helped him stand. Together the two of them walked to his bedside and looked down, at his eyes which were closed but seeing. A chair was moved for Spain; he sat in it and took his hand. He held it in both of his own and touched the fingertips and knuckles like holy objects. _"Precioso _Lovi, _tú eres mi luz. Y…Y voy a decir adiós a Italia para usted._" He pressed the hand to his cheek and kissed it, indeed like a holy object.

_I…I wish…I spoke Spanish!_

_You are his light. He will say goodbye to your brother for you._

Out of his sight where the woman was, there came the quiet rush of a machine producing its last output of energy before slowing its gears and halting. The sound came again: a second machine stopping, or the other half of the same one.

The man in the white coat lifted his watch and announced softly, "Time of death, four forty-one."

Spain bent forward. "_Te echaré de menos, mi amor._" He said, with a kiss to the forehead. He paused, and then fell; he landed on the bandaged, bare chest, and there Spain began to shake and spasm again with sobs, and this time they could be heard. Spain's hands curled into fists and his arms took hold of what they could embrace and did not let go.

Romano felt his heart begin to beat.

_He says he will miss you…but this is unnecessary. Wake, and tell him hello._

_I…I don't want…_

_Never deny the desire of the heart. _

_My heart doesn't desire—!_

_Lies. _

His cries of grief lessening, Spain lifted his head from the smooth, bandaged chest. He swept a hand across one eye. "His…his heart, could it still beat?"

The woman doctor glanced at him, mildly confused. "No. That's residual from the bypass. It'll fade in a minute."

"No, no! Here," Spain said, standing up and shoving the chair back. He reached over the bed and grasped the female doctor's hand and pulled it down to the calm chest, where it sat for a moment and its owner frowned pityingly.

And then she started, and called, "Doctor Barcia! Come, come feel this!" The man in the white coat came over from the counter by the door and also felt the heart. He too gasped and started, and began to sputter.

_Wake and greet him, my son, Lovino. _

Romano felt air enter his lungs.

"Mmh…hello…"

Romano opened his eyes.

Above him was the same Spain who had been crying and desperately holding him, and who still had the wet tracks of tears on his face and whose jaw was partway open. His face immediately broke into the sunniest smile Romano had ever seen. It stung him in his heart and then everywhere else, and then Spain fell on him again, half-gasping and half-yelling his name.

He nearly fell onto Romano's head this time, holding him around his shoulders with one arm and curling Romano's head in the crook of the other, laughing and crying at once. The doctors gaped.

"Hh-hello," Romano said again.

"Hello, Lovi," Spain said, still sobbing and laughing. "Lovi…oh! This is a miracle, _mijo._" Spain pulled Romano's head back a bit, and kissed him flat on his lips. A warmth like the sun lingered there. "God sent you back to me."

The female doctor was babbling something and talking into a cell phone as quick as lightning. The male had already left; with a swift farewell and promise to return with pain meds, she left the room as well, leaving Romano to begin shaking with less fear of being observed. "God…wouldn't want…to…send me back…?" he stated, or asked, for it was quite hard to tell. With his eyes on his love's, Spain held Romano's hand and listened to him. "Why would he send me back to you? Back to _you_?"

A few tears were still leaking from Spain's eyes, and he chuckled very nervously, making an altogether strange and confused face. "What, what are you saying? Why, if there is anything that would make me believe God is real, it is this. He knows I love you. He knows your death was not meant to happen today. So he sent you back to me, where you belong."

"He knows you love me?" Romano repeated.

"_Si. _He, he knows that I love you." Spain replied, starting to laugh a little again. ""_Dios_ _mío, _I…I'm so happy you're alive, I—"

"You love me?" Romano interrupted, and his voice snapped whatever had been between them then.

Spain's tired, relieved laughter died at last. He swallowed and his brows knitted together. "Of course, _mijo._" He observed Romano's eyes, tired, free of tears, glaring. "…Do you…not believe I do?"

_But, but He said, He said—! _"I don't know."

This at last made Spain draw back from him, and from the arm's length of physical distance and an unknown amount more within, he wrinkled his brows together again confusedly. Romano watched him from across the chasm. "I, I can't—what do you mean, you don't know?"

"I don't know." Romano said firmly, and suddenly he felt cold. "If you're just fucking with me, if you've always just been fucking with me, you better tell me right now. I can't stand it anymore. I want peace more than I want you."

Spain's lips contracted briefly as though he meant to start a word and was too weak. He tried again. "Y-you're not making sense. Are you sure that you're feeling all right? Please tell me if you're not, I'll call the doctors back and they'll—"

"Will you stop playing with me?" Romano spat. "Stop talking bullshit, I'm talking about you! You need to tell me what you're really like on the inside! Do you really think it's fun making me guess if you're legitimately gay for me or if you're messing with my head? Laughing while I beg for God to save me? I'll tell you something, you two-faced little fuck, no matter what you really are and what you want from me, I am not a _sinner!_"

Romano was sitting up by now and was close enough to his old guardian's face to feel his breath dusting his cheeks; but there was none. There was none for a long time, and when it was at last inhaled, through its exhale came, "You really think that is the truth. How long have you been thinking this is—"

"I _grew up _thinking this! " His throat began to feel clogged and choked. He could rage no more. "So tell me, and tell me for real."

"Lovi—"

"I begged God to help me," Romano stopped him. Centuries now he had waited to know the truth. Now, now, now it was ready for him. He was not. "All the time, to stop making me care about you and, and make me like girls, but He said, He just _right now _said—"

"The truth, what else would He say?" Spain said very quickly.

"Shut up—He, He said that—that _you _said, I'm your light, and you'd say goodbye to my _fratello _for me. And then you kept molesting my hand."

Spain's hand had been resting on Romano's for a few moments and at that moment they both became rather conscious of it. Spain lifted Romano's hand in his and held his gaze. "How could you have seen that? Understood that?"

Seeing as he'd just had a conversation with God, Romano had no problem stating he'd done something Spain seemed to think impossible, and voiced this. "Well, I did. I saw you cry like a damn baby, too, when you fell into that chair in the corner before. That girl doctor had to comfort you."

Neither of them moved. "You couldn't possibly have seen that," Spain said again. "You…You weren't awake then. You were almost dead." Still holding Romano's eyes, he lifted a small cord that fell over the side of the bed on one side and slipped under the bandages on Romano's chest on the other. "Lovi, this is inside you, inside your heart. It's connected to the machine over there. This machine can make hearts beat when they are too weak to do it themselves."

Romano's eyes followed the cord from its ugly entrance underneath one bandage, down onto the floor and then up to a machine on little wheels that looked rather like a giant cassette player. Spain set the cord down. "Yeah, well, I didn't die." he said quietly.

"You were going to." he replied, and Romano heard that Spain's throat was clogged, too. "The doctors put your heart on bypass, and said they couldn't do anything else. They would have to pull the plug, and your heart would slow down…and then stop. So you'd die. I was crying in the chair because I wanted to die, too." Romano allowed his hand to be molested again.

Sniffing once, Spain tried to talk more, beyond his choked throat. "When you were very little I thought of all kinds of things that could hurt you and make you cry…and steal you away from me." He moved two fingers to a different position around Romano's hand, so that certainly nothing could have stolen it away from him. "I never thought you'd try to do one of those things to yourself. It hurts me so much to know that you did. Because of something you thought about me that I was too foolish to see and correct."

He got no reply. Spain had always given more than he received, so he gave more. "If you died, my heart would slow down and stop, too." His eyes flickered down unsurely and then moved back up. "I just want to be where you are, and make you want to be where I am. Did I ever manage to do that?"

Romano would have turned his head and brushed off the words, but there was a sincerity in them that his ears had never before been open to. He couldn't ignore it. "…Yeah," he said, gruff but clear.

A vague and weak smile began to sprout on Spain's face. "A lot?"

"…A lot."

"Does God think so, too?"

Like he didn't know when he was being patronized. "Screw you. You don't actually believe I talked to God." he scoffed.

"Yes, I do," Spain replied in still the same tone. His eyes were still the same green. He kissed the top of Romano's hand and it felt the same as any of his others. "I believe anything you tell me. I always will. _Tú eres mi luz, _Lovi."

The gaze was too much, like God talking to him. He had to look away or else burst. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Well, He, uh, said you weren't lying. And God says He never said being gay is wrong. What the fuck."

Spain blinked. "Being gay? You worried about that, too?"

A familiar jolt of shock zipped up and down Romano's spine; Spain was forever saying the _stupidest _shit. "Of course! You're—you didn't? Ever?"

A familiar, irritatingly wise little smile grew on Spain's face. "I didn't really realize it for a long time. I just loved you. I didn't call it 'being homosexual,' even though that's what it is, I suppose."

"You're just…_okay _with it?"

"I couldn't be so very, very in love with my Lovi if I wasn't gay."

A very familiar surge of anger grew inside Romano, and would have spewed through his mouth in flares and barbs of insults if he didn't catch himself in time. He caught himself just in time to realize that mixed in his reaction to all these nuances of Spain that he had known forever, there was something different about himself. There was no flaming rush of rejection, no resentment that Spain would dare to sit here and smile and send his heart and soul flying and diving at once. There was nothing there, except peace. He felt…okay. Okay. Romano could hardly remember the last time he'd felt okay. It was so nice.

It was also nice to watch Spain lean forward and kiss his cheek, because he did it so slowly. "I never lied to you about anything. I meant everything I ever said and did. No lies, no tricks, certainly no mind games. I give you nothing but myself, and the offer to trust me. Please take it."

Then Spain moved back and sat in the chair to watch him.

The end was here. Romano would now choose.

The apocalyptic turmoil within himself disappeared. He felt absolutely nothing. The resentment and spite stemming back from the days when he was little enough to be bounced on Spain's knee ceased to exist. The sweet affection from those same days, that matured too quickly and continued to overwhelm him shamefully and beautifully, left only a vacuum. It seemed even God had left him. There was nothing before and inside him but Spain. It seemed there never had been.

There was no proper way to phrase such a feeling, not even in Italian. "Fine," he said instead, and prophesized the coming awkwardness. Spain's face barely brightened as he verbally tripped onward. "We're fine now. I trust you. What's that face? Smile! I love you, okay, and I have my whole stupid life, so fucking smile!"

Spain smiled.

The courage Romano had been unknowingly building held. He didn't look away from Spain's gaze, and began to cry. But then Romano's courage broke and he shamefully covered his face; Spain pulled him forward to the crook of his neck, where he stayed and tried not to shake and then put one awkward arm around Spain's neck. He muttered something which neither of them really heard; Spain turned his head to move his ear closer, and heard Romano tell him to get a doctor.

The machine opposite the bypass machine began to beep, first moderately, then quickly, and Romano's breathing picked up. Spain lay him down on the bed and frantically pushed an orange button on the wall.

A pair of nurses came in within the minute and quickly diagnosed the tachycardia, a heart rate far above normal. "One fifty-three! What in the world were you saying to him?"

"He was just saying that he loves me," Spain replied quite proudly.

"Oh. Well." said the red-faced nurse, and left that alone.

* * *

The day after, Romano was released from the hospital and walked out the front doors surrounded by a quartet of representatives from various medical journals, eager to learn about his completely impossible experience of returning to life after his heart was taken off bypass. Romano, deciding it would lead to trouble and confusion to say God had had an active hand in it, told them to go ask the damn doctors, grabbed Spain's hand and stormed away.

One of the representatives had a camera with him, and was able to film a scene some ten seconds long of a smiling brunette man leaning down slightly to kiss the top of his companion's head. The companion held his hand and continued walking.

* * *

"Dude, I can_not _tell you how sorry I am, seriously. I was drunk as England on a Friday night and I thought the gun had nothing in it, and I was just giving it away to this guy who beat me in a contest—"

"He's sleeping in the next room, so you'd best not talk so loud or—"

"I'm trying to be quiet, okay? I just wanted to say—that, that if you wanted to, you know, shoot me in the foot or the arm or something, I'm cool with that. Your uke's loud and bitchy and stuff but I swear to God I didn't mean to almost kill him. I know you're really seriously gay for him and he's Feli's _Bruder,_ so I would totally not try to off him for real."

"Oh, that's so kind! But you don't have to do that. I have my own punishment in mind. Sometime soon. I won't tell you when or what it'll be, though. You know, I read about this thing while I was in the hospital with Lovi, it's called 'hyperextending the knee' which means bending your knee the wrong way—"

"Uh…um…"

"Relax! Maybe by tomorrow or next week or next month I'll have thought of something different, so don't worry. You remember the old days when you, France and I were fierce powers? I still have my favorite axe from those days."

"Spain."

"Prussia, come on, I wouldn't really chop you to messy, little pieces! Hahaha!"

* * *

"You know something?" Spain asked one day a few weeks later. They were outside Spain's house on a bright Wednesday, sitting against a peach tree in the main garden out back where Romano used to hide from him.

"What?" Romano replied, which wasn't defensive at all, which was so sweet.

"When you were younger, you had crushes on a lot of girls, and I must admit it made me somewhat upset."

Relaxing against the tree not quite listening and feeling sleepy from the sun, Romano responded with a vacant "huh?" and Spain had to repeat himself. Romano then opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him. "Uhm…well, okay?"

"Well, I certainly won't apologize for wanting my little Lovi's attention." He used their laced fingers to pull Romano a little closer and nuzzle his temple. Romano accepted this, then pulled back to his previous position and eyed him curiously. Spain's eyes grew a little darker, and Romano's eyes took note. "Hm? What's that look for? Lovi? Don't look so scared, _mijo_. Come here." Spain reached his hand over and Romano shot up and took two steps backward, quick and jerky as a rabbit.

They stayed in this pose, one sitting and one standing, for only a few seconds before a smile grew on Spain's face, complemented by a spark in his eyes Romano hadn't ever seen. "Come here," he said again, and Romano was inclined not to. He glared and didn't move.

Spain stood up and Romano took another step back, raising his hands slightly as though he'd soon have to defend himself from blows. "Spain, this is not funny."

"If you don't come here, I'm gonna come over there and get you."

Instead of replying, Romano started walking backwards, with his eyes a little narrowed and his mouth a little tight, like he was getting annoyed. Such silly masks would not fool Spain. He started forward. Romano kept his mask of annoyance, but kept walking backwards. "I'm going back inside. I'm hungry."

"But I am, too."

Romano turned to run and would have made it inside, and perhaps would have even managed to lock the door, had a pair of Spain's many new cats have been lying in his path. Romano turned a stride into a leap to keep from stamping Beauty and Inigo Montoya into the ground, and came back to earth too hard. His leg gave way and he fell, and Spain fell on top of him.

Beauty and Inigo Montoya had a grand old time watching.

* * *

The next day, Spain made a point of falling on top of Romano again, and Romano let them both fall. Spain began by laughing, holding what he had always wanted to hold and smiling when it hardly squirmed. He rested his head in the warm curve between Romano's jaw and collar, and marveled when he was allowed to stay there, when he felt a hand lying comfortably on his back assuring him that he was in fact welcomed there. There wasn't mutter about the burden of his weight or anything else.

The impulse he had been feeling for an unfortunate amount of time came up on him again, and it crashed against an insurmountable wall of control as it usually did. And then Spain allowed it through, hoping he was right, and dragged his tongue up Romano's neck. He jerked at first and then shivered, a sweet reaction he very clearly remembered having dreams about. Romano had had those dreams, too, he now knew. Had tender and dark and wanting thoughts—like that, like the way Romano was gripping his hair—like his, too. What was it like to think everything within you was damned? How strange. Did men like them often think that way? How long would Romano have thought that way if he hadn't done what he had?

He needed this, and Romano needed this. He would see that there was nothing wrong. "Lovi," he said, and couldn't help smiling the littlest bit. "Do you want me?"

He was trying to look nonchalant about it. "Yes," he said as though his whole body was in fact not shaking as though with fever.

For his part, Spain was trying not to look wickedly delighted. He exhaled once, quickly, making a sound like a chuckle, grasped the bottom hem of Romano's shirt and heaved it up. There was a silly yelp of "Hey. Hey!" that sounded like protest, but no, it wasn't. Romano had the sense to raise his arms, which helped marginally, and then lie there on his back, staring up as though a monster stood over him. What a delightful face.

His hands seemed to have the idea before his mind did, which was to remove his own shirt as well. How lucky little Lovi was to see that from below him—he'd been told by female partners over the years it was damnably—their favored word, not his—attractive. Spain crossed his hands and pulled from the bottom hem, up and over his head.

When all of his torso was exposed but his sleeves and the folds still covering his face, he felt all Romano's shivers stop completely. Then it was off and on the floor where it ought to have been, and he was watching Romano's face. Oh, his face. He remembered when that face begged to sleep in his room when the nights were stormy, when it told him not to be away from the house for a long time or else he would be mad.

Spain leaned forward and aligned his torso neatly and slowly with Romano's to feel their combined heat, and told him, "_Bésame," _as he descended. Romano had never properly learned Spanish, but he sat up a little anyway. This word, he knew. He had learned it centuries ago, when he was still young enough to be afraid of the dark, and he remembered it. Spain curled a hand around Romano's head and kissed him as he had never kissed him before. He could feel it burn the both of them, felt Romano nervously open his lips for him and Spain took far too much pleasure in delving in.

For one reason or the next, Romano was intent on keeping his tongue out of the way, and that wouldn't do. So ensued a game of trying to catch it and pull it back to where Spain could play with it. Romano was irritatingly adept at dodging for all of five seconds. At that point Spain's long fingers teasing his nipple made his skill crumble, and made his mouth and all the rest of him prey again; the soft skin around his neck was eagerly feasted upon.

His mouth was freed then, just before his half-lidded eyes snapped open when he felt Spain's arousal prodding the inside of his leg. He may have meant to even say something about it, but changed his mind and covered his mouth and closed his eyes again.

"_No hagas eso." _Spain whispered, and pulled the nervous hand away and lie it to rest on the pillow above him to make the meaning clear. "_Quiero que escuche_."

Romano made an unappreciative face, and said in a weak snarl, "_Vaffanculo,_" the meaning of which Spain knew.

"No need to be so mean." he said, and slid lower. Romano's understood his intentions immediately and his face fell. Spain put his teeth around the metal button that secured Romano's pants, and pulled. Romano was completely white. "I certainly never encouraged that. Even now, I must teach you to be good." Both hands grasped the material, fingertips just touching the skin above the waistline, and pulled them leisurely down till they slipped off his feet.

Romano made a timid, heated sound in the back of his throat and looked away. "Just…because I…" The thought seemed to have leave him. Spain watched his entire body become weak and still, while the part that waited for him stood ready and pulsating. His mouth greedily engulfed it.

The reaction was immediate and wonderfully strong. Romano's entire body bucked as though electrocuted; each stroke of Spain's tongue and contraction of his mouth electrocuted him again. He was merciless, hungry, and now angered. He was hearing almost nothing.

With a fierce last touch to its underside, Spain released Romano's erection from his mouth. He lapped the warm drop of its contents that spilled over his lip. "Don't you dare cover your mouth." he said, and Romano looked at him pitifully but didn't move his hands. Granted, he could have voiced such a demand more softly. Yes, for Lovi, he always could. "Move your hands, _querido_. I think we've both waited too long for you to try and mute yourself. Please?" The please was tackled on after a tiny pause, and for all he knew, this is what convinced him. Glaring, he removed his hands, wrapping one tightly around the wrist of the other.

'_He's a little different.' _Spain thought, smiling at him, and seeing the effects of his own smile on Romano's face. _'He listens a little more, now that he knows there was never a barrier between us.' _This last thought echoed in his mind as a question. It was worth thinking about. Not now. He burned now, and wanted Romano to feel his fire.

Spain's ravenous mouth took up his prize again and he heard the faint thumps of Romano's hand hitting the bed. Resisting the desire to cover his own sweet noises. Spain's heart ached yet again from the realization that Romano, Lovi, loved him back.

His heart ached to hold Romano's, to hold Romano himself, take all that Romano was for himself. But for the greed and wants of _España._

"Mmhh…" Romano moaned above him; Spain's ears absorbed it like music. He gently took hold of each of Romano's legs and lie them over his shoulders, one after the other, painstakingly. He heard, "Stop," but didn't much feel like stopping. Why, it'd only be cruel to stop when he was clearly so close, and when he himself was tasting something so divine.

Insistent, Romano gasped, "Stop. Spain, stop! Please…I'll—aahhn!" Romano came with a cry and a shudder, and Spain took in everything that he gave.

'_He knows that there was never barrier between us, does he know there was never barrier between us?' _cried an irritating little voice from somewhere. Spain stomped it flat. It was extremely unwelcome at this point. Romano was willing and waiting for him. Just him. There could be no one and nothing else here but them. _'He doesn't know, he didn't know you loved him till he was nearly dead, he doesn't know now, if you don't tell him he will never know, he will never know and it will be your fault again—'_

A hapless Romano had spent centuries in doubt because his guardian was too foolish to notice. Such a mistake would not be his fault again. Licking his lips, Spain rose up slow and languid, smiling with great satisfaction at the fiery, dark-eyed creature he adored. He appeared to be avoiding eye contact, but once again showcased newly-grown bravery and met his eyes. _'What beautiful eyes.' _

Holding the gaze, Spain lay his hand on his abdomen and traced it down to the waistline of his pants. Romano appeared to be gritting his teeth behind his closed lips. "You can help me if you like." Spain offered. For several seconds, Romano remained lying down, balanced on his elbows, looking like he certainly didn't want to help. Then he rose, attempted to hide the fact that he was looking away again, and undid the button himself.

"Fucking sexual predator." he spat. Spain chuckled and did not comment. Neither of them commented until his pants and boxers had been entirely removed, and then Romano's only comment was a wide-eyed stare.

"Lie down, please." Spain requested, and then when Romano began to, he helped him lie down a little faster. Romano was averse to being forced and so rebelled somewhat. He shoved his elbow against Spain's chest, snarling, "Don't push me, goddammit!" which made Spain feel playful enough to push him down again. They shoved and pulled and even once rolled until Spain pinned him down again in nearly the exact same position they had begun in. Once they'd both caught their breath and Spain was able to lower the intensity of his grin, he said, "I asked you to lie down because I need you to look up at me for a moment. I want to ask you something, _mijo._"

"What?" he replied in a heavy voice that nearly made Spain wish he could skip this part.

"I want you to tell me this is right."

Breathless this time, terrified again, he replied: "…What?"

"You spent a very long time believing you couldn't love me as I love you because it was a sin. I understand now, and I thought you changed your mind." The voice in Spain's head was silent. All around them was silence and heat and dark. "But I haven't heard the exact words yet. I have to hear the exact words from you. Tell me right now that you believe there is nothing wrong with us and with what is about to happen."

Silence and heat and dark. Romano was still as death under him and his eyes completely blank. _'Please, please, Lovi, just say it's all right. It's always been all right, I know, I promise, please—'_

"This is right," Romano said tearfully, and the tears could barely be seen glistening in the corners of his eyes. "This is right, and I was wrong, wrong for five hundred goddamn years, and I'm so stupid for thinking a beautiful, happy dumbfuck like _you _could ever lie to me—" And now his tears were beginning to flow, and he was covering his face again.

Spain touched their foreheads together and held him. "No…" he soothed, the same way he had five hundred years ago when Romano cried. "It's my fault, too_. _I obviously wasted many years if I spent them not noticing you were so troubled. I'll make it better. Remember how I always tried to make it better when you were little?"

"I love you," Romano said fiercely through his tears. "I love you and your hopeless scatterbrained and fucking _hot _way of doing things, and, and your eyes and your name, I like the name Antonio…and…a lot of other things, and God, it _hurts_."

"I know the feeling." He had known that feeling even back in times when it would have been forbidden to act on such a feeling, on one so young as Romano had been. But now, now—

"It's all right now. Now…we begin."

* * *

…Did I really just write that? Really? My God…

I can't tell you how hard I worked on this, and how many times I stopped to try and make something less cheesy, funnier, happier, or just paused because writing such deep, truly loving emotions _and what Spain and Romano just did _makes me feel terribly nervous and exposed. I've never written something so…I don't know..._real _before. To satisfy you all, though, I tried to include all kinds of kinks in it, such as…licking, biting, naked yaoi wrestling, slightlydark!Spain, greedyConquistador!Spain, innocent!Romano, embarrassed!Romano…well, what others did you notice?

(Please note that Romano's heart was put on bypass when he arrived at the hospital, due to the blood loss weakening his heart so significantly. Unless the bypass is being used to keep a healthy heart going during surgery, people with their hearts on bypass do not actually come back once the machine is turned off/"they pull the plug". This is medical fact.)

Now that's it's all over, we see it took a fatal wound, a talk with God and some soul-searching to make Romano realize the unfortunate error of his ways (well, as a yaoi fan and gay rights supporter, I'd call it an error). But saintly Spain was always there for him, and it's all worked out now. Whew…finally…thank you all for reading, I hope this was a sort of journey for you; it sure was a darn long one for me. _Ciao~_


	3. Chapter 3

*TRYING TO DELETE THIS 'THIRD CHAPTER', COMPUTER WILL NOT COOPERATE WITH ME. IGNORE THIS. *

AND NOW I DON'T WANT TO DELETE THIS 'CHAPTER' BECAUSE SOMEONE REVIEWED IT, AND I AM TOO PETTY TO LOSE A REVIEW. UHUHUHU.


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